


it was your dark and stormy day

by saltandlimes



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Look at me go for the fandom tropes, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sharing a Bed, Thunderstorms, trope: bedsharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: Galen knows he shouldn't let Orson Krennic back inside his apartment, let alone his life, when Orson shows up late one night. But sometimes fate has a way of stopping you from doing what you know you should...





	it was your dark and stormy day

**Author's Note:**

> I really feel like I'm engaged in a series of galennic fandom trope experiments right now, so here goes: my favorite trope, bedsharing.

Galen pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. The apartment’s cold, and he’s been curled up here for an hour already, eyes darting up from his book every few minutes to peer through the gap in the curtains and look out at the rain pouring down. It’s been falling since sundown, great sheets of it throwing themselves against the window to run, droplets shattered, down the pane and out into the wet night.

He reaches over to the coffee table, picking up his mug with fingers that feel chilled to the bone. The heat from his tea leaches into them, and Galen sighs in relief. When he brings the cup to his lips, the steam is fragrant, smelling of eleuthero, of chamomile and lemongrass. He takes a sip. 

Galen can feel the hot liquid slide down his throat to pool in his stomach. The rain drums louder outside. Then, just as Galen sets down his mug again, something more than rain pounds at his door. He jumps up, blanket falling to the floor as heavy knocks sound throughout his apartment. The cold presses around him as Galen rushes to the door, spurring him on. When he gets there, he fumbles for a moment at the lock, twisting it in cold-clumsy fingers. 

The rain beats against his face when he opens the door, and for a moment, Galen is blinded. The rain streams off of his face like tears. At first, he can't see who is outside. The night is pitch black to his light blinded eyes. Then, though, he catches a glimpse of a pointed chin and grey streaked hair, gleaming silver in the light filtering out of his door. He steps back inside, holding the door open. 

The door closes with a thump and Galen locks it tight, deadbolt turning over heavily. He turns back to the inside of the apartment. 

“You're soaking,” he says, the words spitting faster out of his lips than they should. 

“It's raining,” Orson says. 

And his voice is just as Galen remembers it. A lisp that he can hear even in those two short words. A roll of the vowels that hums in his bones with a familiar burn. 

“Can I change?” Orson asks, shaking a little. 

“What makes you think I have clothes for you?” Galen bites out the words. 

“You do.” 

Galen shakes his head. But he leads Orson farther into the apartment, back towards the bedroom. Orson knows the way, but he follows meekly behind, his footsteps wet thuds against the wood floor. When then get to the linen closet, Galen stops, pulling the door open so fast it thumps against the opposite wall. He yanks out a fresh towel. 

It gets pushed against Orson's chest. Orson cradles it there, thick fingers clutching at it as Galen walks into the bedroom. Galen steps over a pile of laundry on the floor of the closet, kicking a shirt out of the way. Behind him, he hears Orson laugh. He says nothing, and Galen makes his way to the back of the narrow walk in. 

There, behind a pile of summer shirts, too light for the cold and the damp, are a few abandoned undershirts, two thick sweaters. The shoulders are too narrow for Galen. He'd buried them there, entombed them behind the changing seasons. He pulls out the blue cable knit one, handing it to Orson. 

“I'd wondered where this was,” Orson says. 

“You never asked for it,” Galen hates the petulant twinge of his voice. 

“Would you have answered?” Orson snatches the undershirt from Galen's fingers, going back to the bedroom. He tosses it down on the bed alongside the sweater. Then his hands go to the buttons of his shirt. 

Galen turns away, flushing. He does not look, even as he hears the sounds of Orson shrugging out of his sodden clothes. Instead, he busies himself find a pair of soft pajama pants. He pulls them down, grey like the newest streaks in Orson's hair. 

When he looks back into the bedroom, Orson is standing, still, silent. He's in nothing but his boxers and the undershirt, his wet clothes pooled on the floor. The towel lies next to them, and Orson's hair stands up in a rubbed-dry wreck. Galen clears his throat. 

Orson turns to him, sweater clutched to his chest. Galen steps closer, all the way to the bed to toss the pants on it. Then he tugs the sweater from Orson's fingers, shaking it out. Orson raises his arms. Galen sighs, slipping it over his head and settling it on Orson's shoulders. A single stand of hair falls across Orson's forehead, and Galen's fingers ache to brush it away. He clenches them at his side instead. 

“I only have my own pajamas,” he says. 

Orson nods, turning to pull them on. They cling to him, to the curve of his hips and his waist, to all the places that he is different than Galen. Galen bites his lip. Then Orson turns back, arms wrapped around his chest. 

“Can I have a cup of tea?” he asks. “I can smell yours.”

“Are you hungry?” Galen asks in reply. When Orson shakes his head, Galen walks back into the kitchen, putting on the kettle. The rain is pounding outside, and he can't hear the sound of Orson's breathing over it. He turns to look behind himself. Orson is still there, dressed in pants that don't fit and a sweater two years out of date. 

He leans against the counter, watching through the doorway as Orson settles himself on the couch. Orson pulls at the blanket Galen had wrapped around himself, tugging it up to his chin. He looks so small underneath it, hair still bedraggled, curled up, eyes down. 

The kettle whistles. 

Galen starts, pushing himself off from the counter. He takes down a mug for Orson, and, after a moments hesitation, one for himself. His tea must be cold by now. 

Steam warms his face as he pours from the kettle. He takes down a saucer, tucking it and a spoon under one arm as he carries the cups into the living room. Orson looks up as he enters, lips stretching into a quick grin. 

“Thank you,” he says, as Galen sets down their mugs. 

Galen nods curtly. He collapses back onto the couch, so far away that he cannot even feel the heat from Orson's body. He knows what it would feel like, though. They sit there for a few long moments. Galen stares out the window at the spatters of rain as the wind blows them into the panes. Beside him, Orson's breath whispers out in long exhales. 

The spoon clinks against the side of his mug as he pulls out his teabag. Then he spoons Orson's onto the saucer, handing Orson the tea. The steam curls up into the air, and Orson leans forwards, breathing it in. His eyes slip shut as he takes a sip, and Galen studies the thin lines that have formed at their corners. He doesn't remember them being as deeply graven when he sent Orson away. 

“I'd almost forgotten how it tastes.”

Orson's voice is soft, but Galen can pick out every word over the hiss and splutter of the rain outside. 

“The tea?” he asks, then bites his lip. Of course Orson means the tea. 

Orson takes another sip before answering. Then he sets the mug down on the coffee table. He doesn't use a coster. He never uses one. 

“It's like... I always used to think that it was like brewing comfort.” 

“You don't drink it anymore?” Galen asks, voice going high in shock. 

“Not without you,” Orson presses his lips together. 

Galen nods. He picks up his own tea, warmth leeching into his fingers. When he swallows it down, it does not feel quite as warm as before, feels as though it is somehow inadequate. As though, with Orson here, beside him, he will not be warm without the heat of other skin against his own, the weight of limbs thrown over his own, bodies huddled against the autumn chill. 

He shakes his head. 

“Why are you here, Orson?” he asks instead. 

“Can I crash here? Just for tonight, Galen.”

Galen's stomach turns over. Just one night, one night of Orson back in his apartment, back in his life. One night of remembering. He grits his teeth. But then there's a crash, thunder booming outside and rattling the windowpanes. 

“Did you walk here?” he asks.

Orson nods. He pulls the blanket tighter about himself, small underneath it. When he picks up his mug again, it looks tiny in his huge hands. And yet, he is somehow fragile there, pale in the night and small compared to the boom and blast of the storm outside. Galen sighs. 

“Alright. I'll get you some sheets and you can make up the couch. But only for tonight. And we're going to have a talk tomorrow morning,” Galen says.

Orson bites his lip. Then he nods again, eyes wide and too blue. Galen looks away. He pushes himself off the couch, going to the linen closet down the hall. Inside, he pulls out a pair of pale green sheets, a heavy comforter. 

When he goes back to the couch, Orson is curled up on himself. From where he stands, Galen can see how Orson's hair falls across his face, dry now, a mess of brown and grey. It's soft in the dim light, so like the rest of Orson's features, curve of his chin and the arch of his lips just peaking out from the blanket. 

“I'll make you up a bed. You go use brush your teeth or whatever.”

“I don't have a toothbrush. I... I don't have anything with me, Galen.”

Galen sighs. He sets the sheets down on the end of the bed, running a hand through his hair. Orson looks small under the blanket, knees drawn up to his chest. 

“There are extras under the sink.” 

Orson nods, standing and letting the blanket fall to the floor. The sweater clings to him, wrapping close about his waist and coming to a low v on his bare chest. His hands peak out from underneath the cuffs, thick fingers curled up to his palms. Galen watches him walk back towards the bedroom, to the bathroom. The door closes behind him. 

It's only a few minutes of work before the couch is made up, sheets stretched tight across it and pillow settled at one end. It's barely long enough for Orson, but it will do for a night. 

Galen goes back to his bedroom, pulling down the covers on his bed. He can hear the sluice of water from the bathroom, even against the sound of rain. 

He's only just gotten his sweatshirt off when the door opens and Orson walks out. Galen doesn't look up. 

“We'll talk in the morning,” he says instead, staring at the coverlet. 

“Thank you, Galen.” 

Galen nods. He doesn't glance up until he hears the door to the bedroom shut. The air seems colder without Orson in it. 

When he climbs into bed, the sheets are cold as well.

***

Galen shivers. When his eyes flutter open, the room is dark. The still, quiet of the deep night envelops him. It has stopped raining. 

His shoulders are cold. 

It takes him a moment to realize why. The blanket is pulled back. As his eyes adjust, he can see a figure at the edge of the bed, the deep black of its edges hard against the softer darkness of the room. 

“W-what are you doing?” he asks blearily. 

“Couldn't sleep.” Orson's voice is low, night dark, and whispering. 

“Get in bed,” Galen tells him. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, something chimes, telling him he is not supposed to allow this, that Orson does not belong in his bed. He pushes it away, sliding a little to the edge of the mattress so Orson can get in. 

Orson perches at the very other side of the bed, body stiff as a board. Galen snorts, reaching out a hand. 

“There's enough room for both of us,” he murmurs, patting the blank space of the sheets between them. 

Orson sighs, but he slides in farther. Galen smiles against his pillow. He can feel warmth spreading out from Orson's bare chest. He lets his eyes slip shut again. Everything is as it should be, or almost. 

He reaches out, pressing his chest to Orson's back. Their bare skin touches, and Galen can feel sleep folding over him again. He lets his hand drift to Orson's chest, nestling his palm against Orson's sternum. Orson shivers in his arms. 

“Shhh, sleep,” Galen murmurs, mind fuzzy, drifting. 

He falls back asleep to the quick patter of Orson's breath, to the rise and fall of his chest. 

***

When Galen wakes again, it is to the slow patter of rain against the windowpanes. His fingers are pressed against soft flesh, and hair tickles. For long moments, he doesn't open his eyes. His head is fuzzy with sleep. He flexes his hand instead, fingertips digging into the curve of Orson's stomach. 

His eyes fly open. 

He's pressed up against Orson. Their legs are tangled together, Galen's foot between the bones of Orson's shins. Orson's breathing is slow, breathy with sleep. 

Galen pulls away, dislodging the blanket in the process. Orson moans, a soft whimper at the cold of the morning. Galen hardly hears, though. He's tumbling out of bed, eyes gritty with sleep and straining against the weak daylight of the rain-drenched morning. 

This was not how it was supposed to be. 

His heart thumps in his chest. He trips over his feet on the way to the closet, stumbling inside. Galen grabs a shirt and trousers at random, boxers to take into the bathroom with him for after he showers. His skin feel cold, the chill sharp after the warmth of his bed and the soft press of Orson's body. 

When Galen gets out of the shower, Orson is still curled in bed. There are deep shadows under his eyes. He looks as though he hasn't slept in weeks. Galen tisks under his breath. Then he makes his way into the kitchen, pulling down two mugs for tea. He doesn't have anything for breakfast. There's no need. He doesn't eat it most of the time, too rushed, too focused on getting to the lab. Now he wonders when the last time Orson really ate was. 

Then he shakes his head. It is not his business. Orson is an adult, can feed himself if he so chooses. Galen is nothing more than a part of Orson's past, a shadow from a different time that seems to still loom large in Orson's mind. 

The kettle whistles. 

Galen busies himself with measuring the tea out, two scoops for each mug. Then he pours. The steam floods upwards, curling about him. There’s a creak as the floor shifts. 

Galen looks up to see Orson rubbing blearily at his eyes. His hair stands up on end, a mess of curls. There’s stubble across his cheeks, creeping down to his chin and neck. 

“What was that?” Galen asks, voice too loud. 

“What?” Orson mumbles.

“That! Last night. I told you to sleep on the couch,” his voice is high pitched, too sharp in the morning light, piercing.

“And then you told me to get in bed,” Orson responds. He leans against a wall, hips pushed out and Galen’s pajamas riding low. He hasn’t put on a shirt yet. Galen looks down at the tea. He can’t let his eyes run over the curve of Orson’s waist, trace the softness there, then run searching up to Orson’s face, with his lips and his bright eyes burning there. It is too much.

“Galen?” Orson asks.

Galen shakes himself. He pulls the tea from the mugs, handing one to Orson. 

“You can’t stay here,” Galen says. 

Orson walks into the living room, not looking over his shoulder to check if Galen is following. He sets the mug down on the coffee table - no coaster, of course - then settles back. It’s still dim, the rain blocking out the sun, cocooning them in. Galen follows anyway. 

“Orson, I’m serious. This was just for one night. We can’t do this again. _I can’t do this again._ ”

“Of course, Galen,” Orson says. He takes a sip of his tea then starts. 

“Too hot?” Galen can’t keep the concern from his voice. 

“A little.”

“Why did you come?” the question comes out before Galen stop it. 

“It was the only place I could come.”

“You have your own apartment, right?”

“Roommate kicked me out last night. My stuff’s all in a motel somewhere.”

Galen comes all the way in the room, settling himself down on the couch next to Orson. Before he can stop himself, he’s wrapping a hand around Orson’s shoulders. 

“What happened?”

“‘Irreconcilable differences,’” Orson laughs. “That’s what they say when you get divorced, right?”

“You were married?” Galen tenses, his fingers digging into Orson’s shoulder, biting into the muscle. Orson laughs again, this time harder. 

“Of course not. I… no chance of that happening any time soon,” He shifts under Galen’s hand, and Galen relaxes a little. “I only meant that we didn’t get along.”

“Kicking you out is more than just not getting along, Orson.”

“He said I was, and I quote, ‘a hopeless case who was damn depressing to live with, who couldn’t let go of how my life was, and who was going to come to a bad end.’”

Galen pulls Orson to face him, staring at him. 

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

The sound when Orson laughs this time is hollow. It echoes across the room, a dull noise against the drumbeat of the rain. 

“No, it doesn’t, does it?” 

Galen licks his lips. He clears his throat. This is something serious, something he needs to know more about. But Orson pulls away, standing up, shaking himself a little. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, Galen. Thank you for the tea and the bed. It was more than you had to do for me.”

Then he’s back in the bedroom. Galen can hear the rustle of clothes, the sounds of the hamper opening and closing. When he finally lifts his head, Orson is dressed in his jeans from yesterday and the heavy sweater Galen dug out of the closet.

“Orson…” he starts. 

“I’ll see you around, Galen.”

***

Galen goes about his Friday in a daze, Orson’s face swimming in front of his eyes. He assigns a tech to run his experiments, hands shaking too much to calibrate the NMR machine. Instead, he sits at his desk with spreadsheets open, running equations as he tries not to think about what could possibly be wrong with Orson. 

When he starts wondering if he should take Orson to the doctor - or the psychiatrist - he throws his hands up in despair. Even if he decided he should, that is no longer his right. He gave that up when he broke up with Orson. He gave that up when he kicked Orson out of his apartment as well, when he refused to work out their problems “just one more time.” No matter how much he worries now, this is not his life, not his fight to fight. He cannot let Orson consume him. 

He’s hardly finished anything by the time the day ends, flitting from project to project in the hopes that one of the will catch his attention and distract him. None of them do. Instead, when he stands up at the end of the day, all he has is an aching head and more questions about Orson. 

His car is a mess when he gets inside. A crumpled coffee cup slumps on the floor of the passenger side, and books litter the back seat. Galen sighs. There are receipts stacked in an untidy pile on the dash, each another mark against him written in caffeine and cigarettes. The rain has stopped, but he can see where it stained the windshield. He slides inside, turning the key.

Perhaps he’s not the best candidate for putting Orson’s life back together. 

The drive home is short, just a few minutes down the winding backroads that lead from his lab to the apartment complex. He pulls up outside, fishing a pack of Marlborough Reds out of the center console. When he climbs out, the wind is sharp against his cheeks. 

Galen leans against the side of the car, cupping the lighter in tired fingers. The crackle of the end catching is loud in the silent lot. He tips his head back to breathe out, eyes sliding shut. 

“Spare a light?”

His eyes fly open, and he chokes a little on smoke. 

“Orson! I thought I told you not to come back.”

“You did. Can you spare a light?” Galen nods slowly. He holds out the zippo, watching as Orson’s eyes light. 

“You still have this?”

“It’s a good lighter,” Galen tells him. It’s what Orson said when he’d given it too Galen. _Won’t go out in a windstorm or anything._ There’s a single molecule engraved on the side, just a single reminder of who it belongs to. 

Orson rubs his fingers over it. It looks so small in his hands, and Galen’s reminded of how huge those hands really are, how much those fingers can hold when they choose. Orson fumbles in his pocket - new clothes, so he must have actually left - and pulls out his pack.

They stand there, silent even after Orson hands back the lighter. Galen watches Orson’s fingers as he cradles the cigarette lightly, as they trace over the curve of his lips then down to Orson’s chin and off into the air. Orson has always been able to hum with energy even while he standing in place. He burns too brightly, always has, too much energy for a single human body to contain, too much ambition. 

The smell of cloves comes sharp to Galen, and he almost laughs. He used to make fun of Orson for smoking them, telling him that he seemed like a twenty year old hipster. Now the scent just makes his heart ache, pounding in his chest insistently. 

“Why are you here?” he finally asks. 

“Why not?”

“I _told_ you we were through,” Galen’s voice shakes. 

“Sure.” Orson nods. He doesn’t leave though. Galen drops his head, taking a last drag at his cigarette. Then he drops it, grinding it into the pavement under his boot. He locks the car, turning away towards his porch and his apartment. He can hear Orson behind him. 

“Wipe your feet,” he says when he opens the door. Orson chuckles. Galen drops his bag next to the door, hanging his keys up on the rack. Then he turns. Orson is closing the door, locking the deadbolt. 

“I brought money to order dinner,” Orson says. 

Galen shakes his head.

“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” 

“Only when it matters,” Orson says softly. He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from Galen’s forehead. For a long moment, Galen leans into the touch. Then he pulls away. This is not for him anymore. 

“Orson…” he says, warningly.

“It’s just dinner. Think of it as repayment for giving me a place to stay last night that wasn’t my motel room.” 

Galen shifts from side to side. Orson seems serious, his eyes wide and his shoulders relaxed. 

“Ok… but just dinner. No drinks, no anything else.”

“Just dinner,” Orson confirms.

***

“…So then he says, ‘Mr. Krennic, if you can’t find the copy machine, maybe you should draw up a better floorpan for your own office.’”

Galen laughs, sitting across the couch from Orson. Orson has his chopsticks up in the air, waving wildly, a piece of broccoli clenched tight between them. 

“And he’s standing there, his hands on his hips, just waiting for me to respond, and all I can think is that I just wanted a damn copy of the form and didn’t want to deal with him for one day.”

“Did you fire him?” Galen asks. 

“No! He’s actually a pretty good secretary. I just went back to my office and pulled the mimeograph machine out of the cabinets. He was not amused to find the form for his raise was a mimeographed copy.”

“Oh my god, Orson,” Galen smiles. “That poor kid. I bet he didn’t even know what it was. We’re not even old enough to know what that is, not really.”

“Speak for yourself,” Orson waves the broccoli again. “I have a healthy respect for the aesthetic value of older machines.”

Galen doubles over, laughing so hard that he can’t sit straight. His sides ache, chest heaving and breath coming in quick gasps. 

“You,” he wheezes, “have more than a healthy respect.”

“Well what would you call it?” Orson finally remembers the broccoli and pops it into his mouth. 

“Obsession.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Only for your secretary.”

Galen looks up to find Orson grinning at him, eyes wide and sparkling. Galen’s laughter slowly falls away, disappearing as he watches Orson. He hasn’t had this much fun in months, has laughed more listening to Orson’s absurd stories and long-winded rants than he has for days. He finds himself staring at Orson, trying to parse the lines at the corners of his eyes and the deep bags under them, trying to read the story of their time apart.

It’s not the first time he’s wondered if it was worth it.

Orson’s lips relax from his smile, drawing across his face to purse, pensive. Galen nods slowly, regretfully, as the mood shifts. 

“So are you going to tell me about the roommate?” he asks. 

Orson shakes his head. 

“Nothing to tell. It didn’t work out.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re not _that_ bad of a roommate.”

“I guess I was,” Orson sighs. “I definitely wasn’t the most fun person to live with.”

“You? With your parties and your bars and your friends? I’d have thought your problem would be too much fun.”

“I’ve gotten a bit old for all that, don’t you think?”

Galen bites back a gasp. He’s never imagined Orson like this, sober and solemn, wit turned all to disappointment. For a moment, he has the insane urge to lean forwards and wrap his arms around Orson’s narrow shoulders, to try to smooth away whatever this thing is that has take possession of him.

“Orson, what’s really wrong?” he asks, instead. 

“Galen…” Orson starts. Galen watches as he bites his lip. Then Orson sets down his chopsticks, brushing off his shirt with hands that move too quickly. 

“I should get going,” Orson says, not finishing the sentence. 

“Stay,” Galen really does reach out this time, catching Orson’s wrist quickly. 

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“You’re just saying that, Galen.”

“What are you going back to? An empty motel room and a night of watching history documentaries? Stay with me for a while yet.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Orson practically spits the words.

“It’s not pity.”

“Sure,” the sarcasm seeps through the single word like poison. 

“Orson…” Galen takes a deep breath. “I’m lonely too. Keep me company for just a little longer?”

Orson seems poised to get off the couch when Galen catches his eye. It’s hard to hold his gaze, hard with what Galen knows is showing in his own eyes. They sit there for long moments, and Galen can feel the air between them go thick with unspent words. His fingers clench tighter around Orson’s wide wrist, digging in a little. It’s a lifeline, a signpost in the dark that’s suddenly shrouding him. It’s the only certainty right now, in a mass of wants that he can’t quite understand and dreams that he doesn’t think he wants to remember. 

“Just a little longer,” Orson finally say. 

Galen signs, relaxing his fingers a little, but not letting go. 

“You haven’t even had dessert yet, anyway,” he tells Orson. 

“Yeah?” Orson perks up a little at that. 

“I might… have possibly ordered some chocolate mousse on a whim. Remember that little shop that delivers around the corner? It should be here any minute.”

“Oh really?” Orson grins at him, the past moment fading from his eyes, “Just for me?”

“Y-yes,” Galen stutters. He’s caught out, and Orson knows him too well to believe anything else, knows that Galen doesn’t particularly like chocolate, doesn’t like any sweets. 

“Galen…” Orson starts again, but before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings. 

“There it is.” Galen jumps up, rescued. 

He pays the delivery driver quickly, taking the box from him and turning back in to the room. Galen sets it down on the coffee table, right in front of Orson. Then he grabs the fresh spoon he set on the table earlier in anticipation. He brandishes it in front of Orson.

Orson makes a grab at it, and Galen pulls it away, just out of his reach. Orson makes one more grab at it, and Galen grins, holding it even farther away. Orson relaxes into the couch after that, arms falling to his sides. 

“Galen, please,” he says, voice dropping low, going soft. Galen shivers. That sound, those words, its too much. He holds out the spoon, fingers twitching as Orson’s brush over them when Orson takes the spoon. Orson grins triumphantly when he has it in his hand. 

“There we go, that wasn’t so hard,” Orson whispers, and Galen shivers again. 

“Just eat your mousse,” he grunts. 

“Oh, it’s mine, is it?”

“You know it is. Don’t gloat. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Of course it does. Everything suits me.” 

Galen laughs as Orson opens the box and pulls out the plastic wrapped bowl. From pleading to cocky in one fell sweep, and all of it with just a few words and a well placed smile. That’s Orson. 

There’s no calculation in Orson’s eyes, though, when he unwraps dessert. It’s unadulterated delight, his eyes sparkling and his tongue darting out to sweep over his lips. Galen watches as Orson dips the spoon into the perfect swirl of the top, then slips it into his mouth, sucking it clean. 

“Oh,” Orson moans, “this is amazing.” His eyes slip shut, ecstasy writ large across his face. 

For long moments, Orson says nothing else. He only goes back for another, and then another spoonful. His tongue flicks around the edge of the spoon, and Galen’s stomach turns over, face flushing. He feels as though he’s a voyeur, watching something that was never meant for public consumption, spying on acts too intimate to be offered up without cost. There is pure pleasure in Orson’s slitted gaze, in the way his mouth works the spoon. Galen can feel it curling up in his belly, hot tension that spills into him from Orson. 

“Thank you, Galen,” Orson whispers. Galen shrugs his shoulders, trying not to blush. 

“I… I thought you might like it,” his voice breaks a little on the words. 

“More than like,” Orson’s smile is soft, and Galen feels as though his heart will burst from warmth.

***

Galen leans against the heavy brick outside his apartment. Orson’s perched on the wall that rings his porch, just far enough inside that the rain doesn’t hit him. As Galen watches, he tips his head back, neck stretching long and lips pursing as he blows smoke into the air. It’s chilly, the cold air pressing through Galen’s shirt to raise goosebumps on his skin. He cups one of his hands over his own cigarette, warming his fingers. 

“That was great,” Orson’s voice breaks through in incessant patter of rain. 

“What?” Galen asks, distracted by the curve of Orson’s waist in his shirt, the flick of his thick fingers. 

“All of this. Having dinner with you. Just… being here.”

“It was,” Galen agrees, almost surprised at how quickly he answers Orson. 

They’re silent for a few more minutes. Galen twists the cigarette between his fingers, questions tumbling over in his head. He shouldn’t do this. He knows better. He’s been burned before, felt the heat of Orson’s fire sharp against his skin and walked away from it. Only a fool steps back inside a burning building. 

“Do you want to stay?” his mouth forms the words before he can stop it.

“Galen?” Orson almost gasps. 

“I mean, just to sleep. Like last night. It has to be nicer than a motel, right?” Galen splutters a little. 

“On the couch?”

“No,” Galen laughs, hanging his head. “That didn’t work out so well.”

“Are you sure?” Orson’s voice is more serious now.

“I think so,” Galen says. 

“You _think_ so?”

Galen pauses for a moment, rolling the words over in his mind. He straightens his back, pinching his shoulder blades together, eyes fixed on Orson. Orson’s staring back, cigarette hanging almost forgotten on his lip, still for once. 

“I’m sure,” Galen finally says. 

“Alright then.” Orson agrees, “I’ll stay.”

Galen breathes out a sigh, relief or something else, he can’t be sure. All he knows right now is that he doesn’t want this bubble to burst, doesn’t want this moment of happiness to disappear, and keeping Orson here is the only way he can think of to stop that from happening. 

***

Galen wakes slowly. It’s still dark in the room, and he’s warm, chest pressed against Orson’s back. His hand has found his way to splay on the soft flesh of Orson’s belly, and his hips are pressed against Orson’s ass. He takes a deep breath, and smells cloves and ash, and the unmistakably of Orson himself. He sighs, burying his face deeper in Orson’s hair. 

He’s sleepy, mind a little fuzzy and body not quite away, but he feels like he slept better than he’s slept for months, even better than last night. Orson’s belly expands into Galen’s hand as he breathes slowly, and Galen smiles. Orson feels amazing in his arms, just the right size and shape. 

In this darkness, hemmed in by blankets and curled up tight, Galen can’t remember why he was worried about this. He stops trying, instead pressing his face against the back of Orson’s neck, lips almost touching Orson’s skin. Orson’s breathing hitches, and he stiffens a little. 

“Galen?” he whispers.

“Shhh,” Galen murmurs, smoothing his hand across Orson’s chest. 

“What…” Orson starts. Then he rolls over to face Galen. His cheek has a line across it where the pillowcase has pressed into it, and his hair is in disarray. Galen’s heart beats a little faster.

“Did you sleep well?” Galen’s voice is still low. 

“More than well,” Orson says. 

“I did too,” Galen tells him, fingers tracing over Orson’s back slowly, just above the curve of his ass. Orson’s hands come up, and Galen shivers as one finds its way to press against his chest. Orson’s palm is flat over his heart, wide and warm. 

“Were you lonely?” he whispers.

“What?” Orson asks. 

“Were you lonely without me?” Galen takes a deep breath, the air about them smelling of home and happiness. “Is that what was going on? The ‘irreconcilable differences’ with your roommate?”

“Galen…” Orson’s fingers tighten on his chest. 

“I was,” Galen admits, the words forcing themselves out of his throat and hovering in the air between them. 

Orson’s eyelids flutter, his eyes widening. His cheek hollows out as he chews on it as Galen runs his hand up Orson’s back, smoothing tension from his shoulders. Orson’s skin is hot under his hands, and Galen traces the curves of muscle that hide under his skin. 

“I thought about you too much,” Galen confesses. “I dreamed about waking up like this, you next to me, in my arms, but then I’d wake and you wouldn’t be there. All that beside me was a cold space where you belonged, and I’d remember that I was the one who told you to leave. Every day, Orson, for two years, I’ve woken up and reached out to you.”

He looks straight at Orson as a tear slips out of Orson’s eye, running down the bridge of his nose to land on the pillow. Another joins it, Orson’s eyes glassy, and his cheeks pink. Galen bites his lip. He brings his hand from Orson’s shoulders and traces trembling fingers across the hollows beneath Orson’s eyes, wiping away wetness. 

“I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” he asks. 

“I… I thought I was alone,” Orson’s words come on the heels of a broken laugh. Galen tips his head a little.

“Galen,” Orson sighs, “You have no idea how these two years have been for me. I couldn’t sleep then entire first month. I made myself sick because I couldn’t eat without thinking of how you’d like the meal. I couldn’t watch a film without wondering if you’d seen it too. I felt… I felt like I was mourning a lost future.”

Galen pulls him closer, pressing his cheek to Orson’s forehead. 

“I wondered, once, if dead dreams leave ghosts. Because… because I was haunted. You were around every corner, but I never moved fast enough to catch you. You were behind every closed door, but you never knocked for me to let you in. I went on a date once, and the entire time I waited for him to order tea. And when he bought coffee, I burst out crying. I had to leave. It was terrible.” 

“Why did we do this to ourselves?” Galen asks as he cups Orson’s face with his hand. 

“The entire past two years, I’ve thought about it, about how I fucked up so badly that I drove away the one person who’s ever mattered to me. I don’t know how you can even speak to me now.”

“It wasn’t just you,” Galen says quietly.

“It was,” Orson fires back. 

“Orson,” Galen says, pulling away, “ _it wasn’t_. We’re a tragic romance, and a tragedy takes two.”

“I don’t want to be your tragedy,” Orson says, voice breaking.

All of an instant, Galen makes up his mind. He leans in, lips pressing against Orson’s mouth, meeting Orson’s lips in a slow caress. 

“Then don’t,” he whispers. He kisses Orson again. Orson tastes like sleep, and Galen wrinkles his nose for a second. But then he feels Orson start to kiss back, pressing into Galen’s arms, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Galen threads his fingers through Orson’s hair. He pulls Orson even closer, pressing their bodies together, sighing into Orson’s mouth. 

Orson is warm in his arms, all soft skin and sleepy embraces. No one has ever felt like this before, and no one ever will. Orson fits into him perfectly. Galen runs his hands over Orson’s back, squeezing the softness just above his hips, where Orson’s waist has thickened a little over the past two years. He runs his fingers over the dimples in Orson’s back, cataloguing the differences in where Orson’s ass begins to curve away from his back. Orson moans, voice broken, panting. 

“Be my love story instead,” Galen whispers. 

Orson laughs, but Galen can hear the edge of tears looming behind it. 

“You’re serious?” Orson asks. 

“More serious than I’ve ever been.”

A tear does slip out of Orson’s eye now, making its slow, meandering way down Orson’s cheek. Galen kisses it away quickly, before it can reach Orson’s chin. 

“I’ll try not to be as much of an ass,” Orson blurts out.

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure it out when we get up,” Galen tells him, reckless now that his mind is made up. 

“Are you-” Orson’s voice trails off as Galen’s hands finally find his ass. Galen squeezes tighter now, pulling Orson against him. Galen can feel his own heart beating faster as he holds Orson close. His cock is getting harder, Orson’s hips twitching against his insistently. 

“What do you want?” he whispers in Orson’s ear. 

Orson arches against him, ass pressing into Galen’s hands and hips working against him. For a moment he just moves there against Galen, little flexes of his hips and fluttering fingers tracing over Galen’s back. Then he stills, just for an instant. 

“Anything you’re willing to give me,” he whispers. 

Galen moans. His belly tightens, cock filling out entirely, and he kisses insistently across Orson’s neck. Now that he’s got Orson back, he wants to mark and came and make Orson only his. Right now, thought, he’ll settle for just feeling Orson fall apart. He slips his hands beneath Orson’s shorts, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. 

“Let me touch you?” he asks. 

“Please,” Orson blurts out, answer too fast, almost a yelp. 

Galen smiles. Then he slides his hand around between them, where he can feel Orson’s cock getting harder. It’s thick in his hand, heavy, and Orson’s eyes slam shut when Galen wraps a hand around it. 

“Fuck, Galen,” Orson whimpers. “Don’t stop.”

Galen doesn’t think he could if the world started to end around them. He might not notice, wrapped up with Orson in the cocoon of his bed. He scrambles to kick his own shorts off, then tugs at Orson’s until they come away. Then he pulls Orson over to straddle him as he rolls on his back. 

Orson’s thighs are warm as they wrap about his hips, meaty and thick. Galen squeezes Orson’s cock softly, running his eyes over Orson. He’s not quite as gangly now, a little softer than he was before, a few more pounds on his waistline and his belly. But his eye burn as he looks at Galen, and his hair still falls in the same curls across his sweaty forehead. 

“I wish I could keep you here,” Orson tells him. “Between my legs, laid out for me, just everything I’ve been dreaming of, where no one else could ever find you.”

Galen laughs. Orson’s always had a possessive streak, and it doesn’t seem to have gotten any better over the years. He’s always had to keep an eye on it, but right now, it makes his heart flare for and his hips twitch up, his own cock brushing against his knuckles and just barely meeting Orson’s.

“Only if you stayed with me,” he whispers. 

Orson’s smile is like sunrise over a perfect mountain. It breaks apart when Galen starts stroking him, Orson’s eyes rolling back a little and his mouth slipping open into a soundless moan.

“You like that?” Galen asks. “Do you like my hand on your cock, like me taking care of you?”

Orson whimpers in answer, hips rocking against Galen’s.

“Is this enough for you?” Galen asks, laughing a little as Orson squirms on top of him. 

“Galen…” Orson manages to gasp out. 

“Oh!” Galen fakes surprise. “It probably isn’t. _I know you, Orson_. I know all the little things you dream of at night, I know how you sound when you’re moaning, split open by my cock.”

He rubs a finger over the head of Orson’s dick, spreading the precome that’s leaked out. Orson leans forwards, hands coming to Galen’s shoulders and back arching. 

“You want more, don’t you?” Galen teases, falling so quickly back into the old rhythm of bringing Orson to the edge. “I know you do.”

“Yes, please, Galen, please.” Orson’s voice is already desperate. 

“I’m the only one who can give you exactly what you want,” Galen growls, suddenly jealous of the countless men who’ve probably done this in the past few years. 

“Only you,” Orson repeats. 

Galen runs his fingers down the crease of Orson’s ass, his thumb finding the tight clench of Orson’s hole. He just strokes over it, watching the way Orson’s face changes. He looks in ecstasy, working his hips faster and faster against Galen’s grip. Galen curls his fingers, pressing them into the soft spot just behind Orson’s balls. Orson bites his lip, his cock leaking more now. 

“Touch yourself too,” Orson manages to gasp out, the words coming thin and breathless to Galen’s ears. Galen smells clean sweat and the faintest hint of come, and it makes him press his thumb just a little way into Orson’s ass. Orson groans, but then stills his hips. 

“I want to feel your cock against mine when I come,” Orson moans. 

Galen shivers. The words are nasty, sliding along his skin like filth. He wants to drown in it. 

He lets go of Orson’s dick for a second, lifting his own to meet it. He curls his fingers around them both. Galen whimpers as well now, his cock throbbing. Orson has started rocking his hips again, pressing back onto the finger Galen has inside him. 

“Fuck, you’re hot,” Galen whispers. Orson throws back his head, neck long as he moans. His sides heave, belly trembling and thighs shaking. When he comes, it’s hot over Galen’s fingers. His ass squeezes around Galen’s thumb. It takes long seconds for him to go limp in Galen’s arms, crumpling, spent, to slump down. Galen eases his finger from Orson’s ass, his own cock still hard and aching. His balls feel full, tight, and he bites his lip as Orson lays down next to him. But then Orson’s hand comes to cup his balls, and then to wrap around his cock. Orson uses his own come to ease the slide of his fingers over Galen’s dick, and it only takes a few moments before Galen is fucking up into his hand.

“Orson,” he moans. 

Orson smiles at him. His eyes are so bright, gleaming under the curtain of his bangs, and Galen watches them as his back arches. Then he comes, spilling over Orson’s fingers, stomach tight and heart pounding. It takes him a long moment to come down, and when he does, he finds Orson kissing him, his lips tracing over Galen’s throat almost insistently. 

“I’m never leaving again,” Orson whispers. 

“I won’t make you,” Galen tells him, and this time, he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, as always, I owe my galennic feelz to [cuppyren](http://cuppyren.tumblr.com/), who is always the best. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


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